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Tuesday, June 9, 2009

It's true. Don't get me wrong. I'm Italian. I love to eat. I love food. I love trying things, savoring, enjoying. I hate getting to that point. The preparation, the doing, the waiting on timers, the clean up. I could as soon live on simple foods and never have to cook a real meal again and probably not miss it for years. Part of it is finding things the men in my house will eat.

It has come as a surprise, however wonderful, that the boy loves asparagus. The man? Not so much, but he'll eat it. Tonight I made "sweet chips". Thin sliced sweet potatoes, fried to a crisp then tossed with a cinnamon-brown sugar mix. Crisp, sweet and not at all bad.

The boy liked them, but left more on his plate than he ate. *sigh*

Part of my hating to cook is the arguments every night at the table to get him to eat, or try, something. He's seven and it's wearing thin. At least he's stopped throwing up during dinner. On the table. Yes he did that. A LOT.

I just really don't like the mess, the doing of it. I don't like to cook. Of course, adding that to the "I don't like to clean" "I hate laundry" kind of mantras I have, the man will just call me lazy. Maybe, but isn't it fair to hate the job you do because you have no choice? I know he hates his job. He complains often and well. I'm not allowed to complain because I don't work.

Yeah, right.

So, now I can add another to the list. I hate cooking. Make it simple and we're golden. Make it Thanksgiving, and I'm gonna kill someone.